I cornered Carlo along the walls of the the old castle, A decadent fortress that once housed feudal lords and a nazi batallion. Mussolini came here just once before retreating like the insect I have between my gaze.
Carlo was my best friend, a young Roman who had his sights for Brazil. He was born in and always fought for luxury. Tossing the homeless from their bridges while guarding the damsels of upper classes.
One decade later, he has hung my wife in demonstration for his support of Mussolini. She was an addict whom I tried to help. He boasted at me as if he bested bested great bear in the forests. She was a little over five feet tall.
From the camps that encased the socialists, I abandoned the other partisans and killed hundreds of Germans and fascists to male my way to Carlo’s’ base in the Alps. The nazis described me as a wild animal. Good.
I found Carlo crawling towards my direction. I dragged him to the walls and watched his eyes shrink as I made my shots. He screamed so pleasantly until I Bagan to laugh. Finally.